


Bulletproof

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Billy Hargrove Lives, Car Sex, Character Study, Explicit Sexual Content, FTM Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Future Fic, Gender Issues, Hand Jobs, Jossed, M/M, No Feminising Language, Post-Season/Series 03, Step-Sibling Incest, Trans Male Character, Trans Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Unhealthy Relationships, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24759538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: That throaty half-laugh echoing from lamppost to lamppost from just a couple of yards behind him would in and of itself be a dead giveaway as to who it is even if Max didn't have the very cadence of his sentences imprinted on the ragged unwound cassette tape he calls his memory."I'm going to start thinking you don't wanna see your big bro anymore, sweetheart."
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Maxine "Max" Mayfield
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	Bulletproof

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trashcangimmick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcangimmick/gifts).



"You don't visit. You don't call. You don't write. Tsk."

That throaty half-laugh echoing from lamppost to lamppost from just a couple of yards behind him would in and of itself be a dead giveaway as to who it is even if Max didn't have the very cadence of his sentences imprinted on the ragged unwound cassette tape he calls his memory.

"I'm going to start thinking you don't wanna see your big bro anymore, sweetheart," Billy drawls like molasses dripping to the bottom of a glass of fresh, icy water. Max's brain gags on the rotten sweetness of it, but he turns around nonetheless because some demons you need to face head-on.

Years, and several trips to the Upside-Down, and life being predictably utter shit, but Max won't ever get used to knowing, tangibly and irrevocably, that his brother's _alive_ -alive. Facing him, short-haired and sides trimmed the both of them, shockingly coordinated but for the hair colour, it's like looking into a darkened mirror of what-if.

_What if he's all you're going to get?_

_What if this is what you're becoming?_

_What if this is the worst part of you?_

But Billy smirks in the silence between them, in that crooked way he sometimes does that's both endearing and manipulative and overwhelming. Max resents the heat flooding his own face. Always has been fucking obvious about it. Not that he used to blush at the drop of a pin or anything, but damn did it show when he did. And Billy has always seen it.

Max is back in California these days, mostly to reduce the likelihood of his falling into another dimension or, like, catching on fire due to bad furniture alignments or something equally inane. Indiana seems like a dream but for Lucas and his postcards, more and more infrequent these days, or Will's shy letters asking Max questions no one in Indiana knows how to answer, unknowing that Max doesn't either, that he's just as lost inside.

Indiana is three summers ago, freshly-graduated and too excited by half to get the fuck out. Three summers, Susan's graduation gift safely tucked away at the bottom of the biggest backpack he could get his hands on, skateboard in hand, Max figured it's Cali or bust, and now Indiana looks in his mind's eye like the blurry 8mm shots he's got of himself doing a three-sixty kickflip on Ventura minutes before dawn breaks, traffic light and breezy. Hawkins is film dissolving in unstable chemicals, a picture of a memory. Susan probably never envisioned _this_ when she watched him unwrap a brand new camera and film to go with it, gown and cap discarded in the living room of the house on Cherry.

But every six months or so Billy drops in, scarred and beautiful and mocking in the way he looks both past Max and through him, because he simply doesn't care—not about the clothes or the hair or the _changes_ , no bullshit however much Max watches for a frown or a glare or a kick. Certainly not about the people Max hangs out with, or the words he calls himself which get him high on euphoria while totally sober. Billy doesn't seem to care that Maxine Mayfield is another person in another time, someone who may have never existed to begin with. All Billy appears to care about is finding him at the skatepark, Super 8 camera already packed away, magic hour soon dusking into darkness.

"Don't call me sweetheart," Max manages, gaze flitting, heart jackrabbiting in his chest, banging against his ribs, threatening to burst right out into the open air.

But he follows along, words hardly there between them. They've been here before. Nothing's changed from the last time.

They share a smoke and a half, the dregs of the second dying out in the careful spring breeze of Southern California between Max's fingers. He drops it idly and kills it dead beneath the heel of his worn sneakers. He leans his board against the hood of the rust bucket Billy's been driving since he's been _back_ while Billy gets the door open. He throws his stuff on the backseat, careful not to break his camera, and then Billy drives them up into the darkness above the city lights, pumping in and out of turns carelessly all the way to the place where he parks them for keeps.

"Just dicks and hands," Billy mutters, and it's that floaty feeling again, words meaning things they never did before.

They never kiss. Not when there aren't four walls surrounding them in solitude. Max's forehead bumps Billy's anyway when they lean into each other over the console and the gearshift, jeans already unbuttoned, Billy leaking into his hand straight away, Max not much better where he's hard and wet already from a few looks and anticipation alone. Been here too many times since he's moved out and Billy's come back for that not to be the case.

It's hard and fast, his brain foggy by the end of it, the insides of his jeans damp and sticky. Billy's dick is too hot, scorching, and his come burns from body heat. Max might be touching Hell, but he plays with the foreskin afterwards till Billy hisses and pulls away and has to bat at his hands lest Max reach for him again. Sometimes they play the game where it's too much, near chafing for Billy, but not this time, it seems.

There's come on the gearshift, and Billy's hand slick from dragging low inside Max's pants skims along the steering wheel unconcernedly, and Max's breathing stops in his chest a few dozen times before he calms the fuck down and scrambles for another smoke in the dashboard.

They'll grab two coffees to go at an all-night diner before heading for Max's shitty studio where they'll watch basic cable in the background and maybe make out and maybe even make it to the bed, but Billy won't stick around past the morning, won't even stay to get rudely woken up by Max's alarm. Not if Max is lucky.

And Max will hope against hope that's the last of it. Indiana gone. Buried. But in another six months four months _a week_ Billy will drop in again, and Max might hesitate then, or he might fall into the hole farther still, a throaty half-laugh banging against the walls inside his head all the way down.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: [rhubarbdreams](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)


End file.
